you think dying is a gift, imagine the dying
by Kuro49
Summary: Herc&Chuck. They can say that there are no heroes in a world where heroes cannot die but Hercules Hansen doesn't care for the kind of world where he has to bury his own son.


Written for the kinkmeme prompt: Herc & Chuck, 'I would rather have a living son than be father to a dead hero.' _Obliquely inspired by Travis Beacham's 'There are no heroes in a world where heroes cannot die': Chuck survives Operation Pitfall thanks to Stacker etc. etc. BUT. He has major, major survivor's guilt. He blames himself for Stacker's death. He thinks everyone sees him as a coward. He's young and thinks in absolutes and as far as he's concerned, having survived makes him a failure. _

_I want Herc to deliver that line to him, and Chuck to be completely shocked at how fierce and heartbroken he sounds. Because Chuck has been so self-centred in his grief that he didn't stop to consider his father's feelings on this whole thing, his history of loss and how he deserves a second chance with his son. (Please keep it gen for this one.) _

This one was so fun to write, I need a 2nd person POV once in a while :) Chuck lives despite what the summary appears to imply. Slight warnings for thoughts of suicide, no attempts made though.

XXX

**you think dying is a gift, imagine the living**

XXX

You are twenty one when you make your twelfth Kaiju kill. And you are twenty one when you die in a nuclear blast that marks the start of something much like peace. Or so you intend when you are down in the trenches, ocean for miles and miles, and miles in every direction you know.

But you are Charles Hansen, and the world has never been fair to you, not once, not when it mattered the most.

At twenty one, you open your eyes and you are floating in a life pod above a sealed breach in the middle of the Pacific ocean. You don't feel any of the triumph, just an empty pit of loss that hollows you out.

Because you don't abandon your co-pilot. And that is not a choice anyone else can make for you.

And you don't, but you did.

.

(This is the start to a life you never intend to have, you're a miracle and a tragedy all in one.)

.

It's not quite suicide, you're not that much of a coward. But it isn't _not_ either and that scares your father more. You can tell with the ways he looks at you when he thinks you don't notice, or he does and in some way, this is him telling you to _stop_ without saying it in that many words.

You come back and you smell like ashes of a burnt down city. Your dog isn't willing to stray too far from you but he doesn't press his wet snout into your hand when you reach for him either. Max smells the despair of a dying man when you are leaning over the railings, grip loose, lighting up another cigarette you don't actually have the taste for.

It's a slow, drawn out path to death.

He noses at your boot and whines like he imagines you will jump, hit the water of a bay long gone toxic from all the Kaiju blue. You imagine you will jump, hit the water, and come up gasping for breaths that burn on the way up. Because that's what you do. And if you can't die, then you will torture yourself some more.

You suck in a deeper breath.

.

(You hurt, you ache, and you imagine death to be a gift.

But not once do you think about the living, and their very real pain. You don't see your father's eyes resting over your frame as you let out another lung full of smoke from between your parted lips.)

.

You eat, you sleep, but only the bare minimum to keep you going.

Just enough that your father can't say anything.

You hurt, but the pain is something you can't reach (wouldn't even if you could). Physical therapy has waved you off, declared you your own damn man a week ago, signed all the right papers and sent you off. Your father scowls when you shove the paper in his hands but he is looking at the papers and not at you, and that should mean something but you don't care enough.

So you continue to shed the weight off of your bones.

It is harder to lose the muscle mass when you have been training to be stronger since you were eleven and your world was decimated by a nuclear blast. But it means nothing to be a valid when your mind is splintered into jagged edges you keep running your entire body over.

The food is good, the colours vibrant, and it reminds you of things before the war. But it is mechanical when you feed yourself, one spoonful after another. Your hand doesn't shake, you aren't tired but you need to get away when he sits down at the mess hall before you.

Pushing the tray away, to him, you stand up, a soft excuse falling before your mouth fills up with cotton.

You don't see your father, or his sadness, or the broken way he cleans up your plate with one hand, the other, the one broken from the eleventh hour of the war, goes to pet the dog you left behind.

.

(You don't look at your father because you don't know how to say sorry without those exact words. Sorry for being here even when you already have both feet planted in the grave.)

.

You smell like nicotine and cheap beer you never liked.

You are not drunk, but you instantly wish you were when you enter your quarters and all you see is your father sitting on your bed, Max on his lap. He has his eyes closed and for that moment the lines around his war worn eyes aren't so prominent. It isn't disappointment when he opens his eyes to look at you, it is despair, and that is far worse when he starts.

"Chuck—"

You know you can't hear the rest.

"His last thought was you," you cut in and the words taste like salt and blood and self-loathing you have been feeling since you wake up alive. What you don't say is that your head is not your own, not when you have holes the shape of your mother, your father, and then the Marshal too.

"I'm alive because he saved me, ejected me from Striker because of you_._" You continue, and you aren't grateful. You are angry and you hate him, in a completely different way than you have always hated him. And he knows that too. You run a hand through your hair and you grimace because that's how you smile now. "You made him _promise_."

"I'm not going to apologize for that." Your father tells you, and it makes you flinch. Still, it doesn't prepare for what he says next, it is not a slap in the face, or a gut punch, but it might as well when he finally looks at you in the eyes. "I would rather have a living son than be father to a dead hero, Chuck."

There's a fierce burn against every edge of every word, conviction that takes his all to force out when he is looking at his son and all he sees is grief and loss and so much _guilt_. But he doesn't care for that, Hercules Hansen is a father and he deserves a second chance with his son.

And no, this isn't the world where he apologizes because there is no world where he will apologize for being a father.

"So you better start taking care of your own damn dog."

He shoves Max into your arms. It is not the whine Max lets out, or the way your father's words ring inside your head. It is the grief in the line of his shoulders, looking like he has already buried a son.

"Dad."

In retrospect, you are young, still all of twenty one, and you think in absolutes.

You don't understand that guilt isn't enough to bury a man, but self-sacrifice is. You don't understand that there is more to life than being a coward, and a failure, and a thousand other things people can call you. You don't understand what being a father or a mother means because you are twenty one and you will forever be a child to him.

"Dad, I—"

You don't know how to say thank you, so you just nod, blinking back the heady rush to cry because you've lost so much but your father has lost even more. You hold Max closer to your heart and you are finally pushing back against the waves determined to drown you.

Your father smiles, and it looks all wrong but it's a start and you feel like you have finally found the strength to swim against the miles and miles of ocean surrounding you.

XXX Kuro


End file.
